


The same page

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: After Crowley receives the Holy Water from Aziraphale, Drunk Crowley (Good Omens), Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, Pet Names, Phone Calls & Telephones, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-03 01:54:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21171488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	The same page

_You go too fast for me._

Aziraphale sags against the door of the bookshop the moment it closes behind him and breathes deeply. He doesn’t want to think about Crowley’s face when he said those six words. 

There’s the memory:

He said, “goodnight, angel,” and Aziraphale loved him because his voice wasn’t angry. It could have been but it was just sad. He could deal with sad.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale replied, taking one last look at him. 

There were several things Aziraphale noticed then; one, Crowley was avoiding eye contact with him on purpose, two, his hands were gripping the steering wheel as if they wanted to tear it apart, three, he was crying underneath the sunglasses.

Aziraphale could feel it. 

There was nothing to be done against it. It wasn’t like he could take those six words back. It wasn’t like he could climb back into the passenger seat and pull Crowley into his arms. The only thing he could do, was leave.

“Please, be careful with the holy water,” he said and slammed the door of the Bentley, perhaps with more force than necessary. 

_You go too fast for me. Am I going too slow for you?_

Now, he buries his face into his hands and tries to recollect himself.

He takes a deep breath, takes a lot of them in fact, and stands up. He looks around the bookshop with something very close to hatred.

All the books, all the homeliness of the place fades in comparison to the one he’s just left in Crowley’s car. 

The trick is to keep himself busy and so that’s what he does. He reads the whole collection of Oscar Wilde’s poems in one sitting. Then he works around the shelves, rearranges his books into a new order. He cleans up his desk, makes some tea, writes a letter.

Eventually, he gets so restless he has to take a bath which isn’t helpful at all. It makes him too aware of the silence around him, the void that’s supposed to be filled by Crowley.

Around five in the morning, he stumbles out of the bath, naked and dripping, and all but runs towards the telephone. With one hand, he grabs the earpiece and with the other, dials Crowley’s number.

Nervously, he chews on his lip while he waits for him to pick up.

“What?”

Aziraphale flinches at the sharpness of Crowley’s tone. 

“Aziraphale, is that you?”

“Yes,” he blurts out, suddenly not sure what to say, “yes, it’s me. Sorry. Em, I...” 

“You called because...?”

Aziraphale sighs. He can’t talk to Crowley like this. 

“Crowley,” he says with a bit of irritation seeping into his voice, “why don’t you sober up, my dear?” 

Crowley goes silent on the other end and then whispers, “I don’t want to.” 

Aziraphale frowns at the wall because he can’t frown at Crowley. 

“You should,” he tries. 

“I should not.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking alone.”

For a moment, Aziraphale believes he’s going to listen to him and sober up but instead, he asks in the most vulnerable voice, “and why is that?”

“Because...” Aziraphale takes a deep breath. “Because it makes you sad and I don’t want you to be.”

Aziraphale can feel himself blush. 

“Angel,” Crowley breathes into the speaker. Aziraphale presses the earpiece closer to his ear so as not to miss a single word. His previous embarrassment turns into fondness. He’s fond of the words that left his mouth, even if they might have been perhaps too revealing. “I’m sober already.”

Aziraphale smiles at the wall because he can’t smile at Crowley.

“How does it feel?”

“Awful,” he cracks and they both laugh.

Aziraphale closes his eyes. They can do this. They can keep doing this. With the way both angels and demons stand towards modern technology, this kind of communication is as safe as it can be. 

“What are your plans for today?” Aziraphale asks as a matter of fact just to prolong the conversation.

There’s a beat of silence before Crowley replies, “a temptation, maybe.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes in interest.

“Oh really, what kind of a temptation?”

“There’s this angel I know for six thousand years and he loves a good bottle of wine. I know a place where he could get one.”

Aziraphale sighs loud enough for Crowley to hear.

“You know I can’t, Crowley.”

“Just one night. That’s all I am asking.”

“Sweetheart,” Aziraphale approaches him in a softer voice, “it’s for your own safety.”

A long silence follows on Crowley’s end and then— 

“Sweetheart?” he gasps, choking on the word. Aziraphale blushes harder than before.

“What? You call me angel all the time,” he argues but it comes out rather weak.

“Yes, but... that’s...”

“Different?”

Crowley sucks in a sharp breath. 

“Not really...”

Aziraphale smiles and hums, “I’m glad we’re on the same page then.”

Crowley snorts into the speaker. “Me too.”


End file.
